


Where No Knives Have Gone Before

by rabidchild67



Series: Where No Knives Have Gone Before [1]
Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Reality Show, Crossover, F/M, Food, M/M, Top Chef
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-07
Updated: 2012-09-07
Packaged: 2017-11-13 18:45:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/506550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabidchild67/pseuds/rabidchild67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s a Star Trek AOS/Top Chef fusion, starring  all your favorites among the central cast (and a few others to pad it out – I needed 17 chefs!).  In Episode 1, the Cheftestants meet, fight, cook, screw – you know, a typical day in ST:AOS 'verses everywhere.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where No Knives Have Gone Before

**Episode 1: I Left My Heart...**

Jim Kirk sat at a table in the corner and ignored the film crew set up nearby. Or tried to ignore the film crew set up nearby, if he was going to adhere to his New Year’s resolution to be truthful to himself. His eyes followed the beautiful young woman as she pranced up to the bar to order; he knew she was with the production, saw her come in with a film crew her own a while ago. He wondered if she was a contestant or a producer. He hoped for the former but thought the latter more likely. Downing his beer quickly, he rose and crossed to the bar to get another.

He paused to size her up – and admire her ass, to be sure. She was simply stunning, her hair pulled into a sleek ponytail on the top of her head, a shift dress clinging to her figure in all the right places, black leather boots so pointy he wanted to feel them pressed against all his soft places. “Fuck me,” he breathed.

“What was that?” she said, cocking her head up at him. 

“That’s a lot of drinks for one woman,” he said, indicating the six or so different beverages lined up on the bar in front of her. 

“My turn to get the next round,” she explained. “And a shot of Jack, straight up,” she continued to the bartender. 

“Make that two – shots on me,” Jim said to him.

“Her shot’s on her,” she called to the barkeep. “Thanks but no thanks,” she said to Jim.

“Do you at least want to know my name before you completely reject me?”

“I'm fine without it.”

“You _are_ fine without it. It's Jim, Jim Kirk. If you don't tell me your name, I'm gonna have to make one up.”

“It's Uhura.” 

“Uhura, no way. That's the name I was gonna make up for ya. Uhura what?” 

“Just Uhura.”

“They don't have last names where you come from?”

“Uhura is my last name.”

“Well then, they don't have first names?” He moved closer to her, probably too close than was strictly appropriate, but if she was a cast member or on the production, he’d be getting to know her pretty soon anyway. “So, you're with the show? Top Chef?”

“How do you…” Details of the production were to remain strictly under wraps. 

“I am too. On the show. I mean, I’m a chef and they chose me for the show.”

She gave him a long, hard look. “ _You’re_ a chef?”

“Don’t I look chefly?”

“You look like a dumb hick who only has sex with farm animals.”

“Well, not _only_.” 

She laughed and Jim couldn’t take his eyes off her even, white teeth. 

"This townie isn't bothering you, is he?” said a hulking mass of testosterone that appeared suddenly behind them.

“Oh, beyond belief. But it's nothing I can't handle.”

“You could handle me, if that's an invitation,” Jim said, waggling his eyebrows.

“You should mind your manners,” the hulking mass told him.

Jim was aware of cameramen converging on the scene suddenly, and something inside him – well, _snapped_ wasn’t the right word, but _turned on_ may have worked. “Relax, Cupcake, it was a joke.” Jim squeezed the man’s upper arm dismissively and turned his back on him, trying to chat up the lovely Miss Uhura some more, fully aware how obnoxious and provocative he was being. 

“Maybe I didn’t find it so funny,” Cupcake retorted, grabbing Jim’s arm and spinning him around. Jim brought up his left fist and connected with the side of the guy’s face, but it was a losing cause – the guy had at least 50 pounds and three inches on him, a size advantage he put to good use as he planted a massive fist in the middle of Jim’s face. Jim hauled off and landed a square shot on the man’s solar plexus, but it was literally like punching a slab of meat for all the effect it had. One more fist to the side of Jim’s face and he went down like the proverbial sack of Idahoes. 

\----

“You all right, son?”

Jim looked up through still-tearing eyes at a tall man in his late forties standing over the table where the sound guy had unceremoniously dumped him a half hour ago. He blinked when he thought his eyes were playing tricks, but no, they weren’t. “You’re Christopher Pike,” he said. Pike was a legend, with three Michelin stars and two James Beard awards and one of the most popular restaurants in the city.

“And I couldn’t believe it when the producers told me who you are.”

“And who am I, Chef?” 

“Your father’s son.”

Jim gestured for the bartender to bring him a drink but was roundly ignored. He shrugged.

“I worked with your Dad before he joined the military; we went to the CIA together. He was a great pastry chef.” Jim’s father George had been a Marine stationed in Beirut when the American embassy was bombed in 1983. “He saved a lot of lives in that Embassy bombing. Including yours.” Caught in the blast in the Embassy’s kitchens, Jim’s mother Winona, also a chef, had gone into labor; George dragged her to safety before running back inside to help other hurt and injured staff. Jim was born, a month premature, in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. George's heroism, as well as the circumstances of Jim's birth, had made for tasty tabloid fodder at the time; he was still asked about it, even if it was nearly 30 years later.

“Too bad he didn’t take care of himself. He’d have survived if he’d gone to a medic.”

“Thinking of others was what defined him, what made him him. To be part of a team, to act for the greater good, that’s what he believed in.”

“Sure learned his lesson.”

“Well, it depends on how you define teamwork.”

Jim pulled out the napkins he’d shoved up his nostrils to staunch the bleeding and frowned at them. “Why are you talking to me, man? Aren’t I off the show now for fighting or something?”

“You know, that instinct to leap without looking, that was your Dad to a ‘T’ and it’s what’s missing on this show,” Pike went on, ignoring him. “It’s become too much about technicians and personalities and not enough about taking chances with the food. That’s why I’m judging this year, and it’s why I talked them into giving you the chance to compete. I looked you up, you know, and everyone I talked to from the lowliest prep cook to Thomas fucking Keller himself can’t say enough good things about you. You like being the only genius-level line cook in America?”

“Maybe I love it.”

Pike waited a beat before continuing, those piercing blue eyes regarding Jim like he had his number already. Jim hated it. “Look, so your dad died. You can settle for less than an ordinary life. Or do you feel like you were meant for something better? Something special?”

Jim just stared at him, feeling his face burn red and not wanting to admit Pike was right. “We done?”

“I'm done. They’ve got a trolley parked up the block to take you idiots up to the Fairmont for the first challenge – it leaves in thirty minutes.” Pike rose, the wooden chair screeching against the bar’s floor. “You know, before he enlisted, your father was one of the most talented young pastry chefs in New York, but he had a higher calling, one that saw him serving his country and saving lives. I dare you to make him proud.” Pike turned and left, and Jim watched his retreating back with his mouth hanging open.

God, he hated having to think about his feelings. He also hated having someone tell him he was being an asshole, which he wasn’t entirely sure was warranted now. But one thing he knew how to do and do well was cook – had done since the age of five when he commandeered his cousin Missy’s Easy-Bake Oven to make a chocolate soufflé and wound up almost burning the house down. He knew he was better than any of the classically-trained chefs they could dig up for this, because what he lacked in education he more than made up for in balls and tenacity, having apprenticed himself at the age of 15 in a kitchen in Arles. The chef had made him peel vegetables and make stock for an entire year, but he’d learned the ways of a kitchen from the bottom up, and earned a spot as _saucier_ before his 17th birthday. No, he’d worked too hard to give this up now.

Jim got up and ordered an espresso and a bottle of water from the bar, downed the coffee in one gulp and then dumped the water over his head. Shaking most of the water out of his hair, he grabbed his leather jacket and headed off to join the ranks of Top Chefs.

\----

The cable car was packed, Top Chef contenders seated side-by-side along the side, with camera crew taking up what limited space remained. Jim hopped up onto the platform and stopped with his hand on the brass pole – the man who’d just cleaned his clock for him was seated immediately to his right, a dark-haired man with a bizarrely tattooed face scowling at everyone just beside him. 

“At ease, gentlemen,” Jim snarked and moved past them. There was a sole seat available, somewhere in the middle, where a tense, wild-eyed man sat gripping the edge of his seat tightly enough to make his knuckles turn white. A pimply-faced kid with fair curls sat just to the right of the vacant seat, clearly trying to give him a wider berth. Jim slipped into the space and caught sight of Uhura sitting across from them. “Never did get that first name,” he said to her with a smile. She looked away towards the front of the car, but he thought he saw a slight smile play across her lips. 

Jim followed her eyes to the front, where Pike now stood to address them all. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve been cleared for takeoff,” he began, to a chorus of titters at the stupid joke. “This cable car will take you to the Top Chef kitchens at the Fairmont Hotel, where you will embark on your first mission – a Quickfire challenge. I know you are all up to the task.” Jim tried to ignore the fact Pike was looking straight at him when he said that. “I wish you all luck!” Pike finished, jumped down from the trolley and hopped into a waiting limo.

The cable car driver began to move the levers that operated it, and the thing sprang to life with a violent lurch, causing everyone on board to gasp as they swayed back and forth. Jim could feel the man on his right tense up.

“I want you to know I may throw up on ya,” he growled. His accent was Southern – Jim thought maybe Georgian, or possibly South Carolina, and he was gritting his teeth so hard the muscles in his jaw bunched.

“I think these things are pretty safe,” Jim tried to assure him.

“Don't pander to me, kid, do you know how many things can go wrong? One tiny object on the tracks and the thing goes crashing into the nearest city bus. And those cables? They’re like a hundred years old; this thing derails and we’ll be hurtling back down the hill into cross-town traffic. And wait 'til your sitting pretty when some snot-nosed kid coughs up scarlet fever or fucking Ebola germs all over ya. See if you're still so relaxed when your eyeballs are bleeding. This city is disease and danger and heartbreak just waiting to consume you.”

“Well, I hate to break this to you, but I’m pretty sure we’ll be all over town in the next few weeks.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not like I’ve got anywhere else to go. The ex-wife took the whole damn state in the divorce. All I've got left is my bones.” He took out a small flask and unstoppered it, took a swig and offered it to Jim.

Jim laughed and accepted the flask, then held out his hand. “Jim Kirk.”

“McCoy, Leonard McCoy,” he said, shaking it. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

\----

Jim stood and waited to get off the cable car where it was stopped near the Fairmont, emerging blinking in the bright sunshine. McCoy pushed into him from behind, trying to get off the cable car as quickly as possible, and Jim wouldn’t have been surprised if he got on his knees to kiss the ground. Jim hung near the side of the cable car as they all disembarked, sizing up the competition.

The guy with the tattoos on his face – it appeared his name was Nero – stood off to the side smoking and glaring at everyone, including Gaila, an adorable red head with a bubbly personality who spent half the ride over flirting outrageously with anyone who talked with her, male or female. As an inveterate flirt himself, Jim respected that a lot. 

Pavel Chekov, the kid he’d been sitting next to, really was a kid – some kind of 17-year old Russian culinary wunderkind he was sure was cast as a stunt – Jim expected him to be gone early on. Chekov was talking animatedly with a tall Asian man with many piercings whose name was Sulu. Jim didn’t get much else off him other than his name – he wondered if he spoke English. To Jim’s left, a Scottish chef was having a serious discussion about smoked fish with a young woman whose name Jim thought he’d heard as Saavik, but her maybe-Swedish accent combined with the Scot’s made the entire conversation sound like gibberish.

The last person off the cable car was a tall man with dark hair whose gaze took in everything, but Jim hadn’t heard him utter a single syllable the entire trip up. Jim recognized him of course – he’d literally just been named the James Beard Foundation’s Rising Star the month before, but the press photos hadn’t done Spock justice. His shoulders were broad, Jim could just make out well-defined chest and abdominal muscles beneath the clingy, grey t-shirt he wore, and if those black jeans were any indication, an ass that wouldn’t quit. 

“Hey,” Jim greeted him, bobbing his head once. Spock turned his head and dark, intense eyes regarded Jim from beneath heavy brows, one of which was now raised in curiosity. His complexion was pale and he was sporting a five o’clock shadow, but he didn’t seem to be as exhausted as the rest of the contestants. He carried himself with an alertness the others lacked, his posture perfect and his back straight. In short, he oozed a confidence and poise that was undeniably sexy, and Jim would be dying from jealousy if he hadn’t already fallen head over heels. 

“Good afternoon,” Spock said politely, his face expressionless except for the slight cocking of an eyebrow. 

“Spock,” Uhura called and the man moved away to her side; Jim saw her take his hand and squeeze it, speaking in a low tone into his ear as he nodded. 

_Hey?_ Jim chided himself, _all kinds of gorgeous falls into your lap, and all you can muster is, “Hey?”_

Before he had a chance to properly smack himself upside the head, a small hand on his back got his attention. “Jim,” a dreamy voice said.

Jim turned to face a young woman who seemed vaguely familiar. She was medium height, her hair was done up in long, blonde dreads, and she regarded him with kind yet serious brown eyes. “Namaste.” She folded her hands before her chest and gave him a short bow, closing her eyes beatifically.

Jim squinted at her. “Carol? Carol Marcus?”

She inclined her head and spread her hands, a gesture of affirmation. 

“Wow. It’s been. A while.” It had been ten years since they’d met while she was doing the post-college-graduation backpacking trip across southern France and he was 19 and between jobs. They’d spent two glorious weeks fucking and getting into trouble on her Daddy’s AmEx, and he’d never expected to see her again. “You’re a chef?”

She nodded. “I work in an Ayurvedic vegan restaurant in Big Sur.”

“They have cuisine now?” Jim tried not to stare at her; she had on loose-fitting clothes, was completely barefoot, and looked like she might be high. A stark contrast to the intense, Type-A, pre-med student he’d known all those years ago. He barely recognized her.

She beamed up at him, and he was wondering how he was supposed to get out of this conversation when a producer came to round them all up and take them to the kitchens. 

\----

Jim stood in line just outside the Top Chef kitchen, waiting for the director to usher them inside. This was their third attempt at entering the set that would be their home for the season, and the prior two had been screwed up for technical reasons. 

“Just how much more surprised can I be to meet Tom and Padma?” McCoy muttered from somewhere behind Jim, and he stifled a laugh. 

Luckily, the third time proved to be the charm and dammit if the redhead Gaila wasn’t as excited as a kid on Christmas morning to be seeing the hosts of the show standing before them in the large space. Jim shook his head and laughed and hoped it looked like happiness to be there. They all found their marks and waited for Padma to deliver her lines welcoming them to a new season, the best season to date and yada, yada, yada. Jim tuned her out, being much more focused on Spock, who stood at the end of the line of chefs, head cocked as he listened attentively. His bottom lip was just so full…

Jim was brought out of his fantasy by the fact that Padma was instructing them on the terms of their first Quickfire challenge. He grinned as they were delivered – 

“Tony Bennett’s signature song was ‘I Left My Heart in San Francisco,’” she went on. “So we would like you all to leave your heart here, on the plate. You will each cook your signature dish, to be tasted by Tom and myself, as well as your fellow contestants.” She paused for effect as Jim and the rest of the cheftestants looked around at each other warily. 

“Your time starts NOW!” Padma called and Jim raced for the refrigerators at the back of the kitchen to try to secure the protein he would need to make his dish – a hot-smoked salmon eggs benedict with chorizo-flavored Hollandaise. He reached the fish refrigerator a hair behind Spock, who grabbed the only side of line-caught Coho in the place. 

“Hey, is there any more in there?” he asked urgently.

“I do not believe so.”

“Well, I don’t need that much – think you can part with about 8 ounces?”

“I will require it all,” Spock replied and turned to find additional ingredients.

Annoyed at his coldness, Jim searched the rest of the refrigerator but could only find what appeared to be farmed salmon – most definitely not what he was after. Thinking fast, he found a slab of pork belly in another fridge, grabbed a bunch of aromatics and a pressure cooker and went to find a cooking station.

One hour later, Jim was just wiping drips off his platter of Crispy Pork Belly with Cheese Grits and Frizzled Kale when time was called. He stood and raised his hands in the air, glancing around the room at his fellow contestants, who all looked about as frazzled as he felt. Gaila hadn’t had time to sauce her dish, and she looked like she was about to cry. 

Where had the time gone? Jim was humbled to realize that this competition was going to be every bit as hard as past contestants had always said it was – he’d just naively thought they were exaggerating for the cameras. 

Before the tasting was to happen, Padma entered the kitchen with Tom Colicchio and called all the cheftestants together. The production staff had set up a small table at the front of the kitchen with two large knife blocks in it, and they were told to each draw one. Each one had a number on it between 1 and 8 – Jim drew a 3, as did, of all people, Carol. He noticed that Spock and that cat with the tattoos on his face, Nero, each drew the number 8. Since they had 17 chefs, one of them - Janice Rand - drew a wild card. They weren’t told what the numbers were for – not yet.

Padma led them around to all the stations to taste the food, and soon Jim realized what the Elimination Challenge would be – they’d have to either recreate or reinterpret the dish of the other person who’d drawn the same number, so he paid particular attention to the flavors of the simple, rustic white bean soup Carol had prepared when the time came. Looking around the room, he saw that many of the others had figured that out, too, and so were listening attentively as they described their dishes. 

“And what is this?” Padma was saying to McCoy, face alight with interest at the presentation. 

“Roasted bone marrow and parsley salad,” he replied, looking self-conscious. “It’s a little interactive.”

She smiled as she used the delicate spoon to spread a measure of marrow onto the toast he’d provided, piled on a healthy bit of parsley and a sprinkling of the grey sea salt that lay in a tiny dish on the side. Jim had to admit to himself that the salt was a genius addition – he wouldn’t have thought of it. It was delicious if the moans coming from their host were any indication. 

“That’s one of the best things I’ve had in my mouth,” Padma said unself-consciously, showing the naughty streak that only occasionally made it onto the air, and Tom chuckled. McCoy turned beet red, but smiled with pleasure until she and Tom moved on with the group.

“Nice bones, Bones,” Jim chided him as he took his own taste of the dish; the richness of the marrow was perfectly offset by the brightness of the parsley, and the lemon juice used to dress it. Simple flavors, but clean and perfectly prepared. Jim thought he was looking at some serious competition. 

“Don’t call me that,” he snapped, but his face belied the tone. “You really like it?” 

“Hells yeah. Terrific presentation, too.” McCoy beamed, but Jim noticed that the group had begun to move on to the next station. “We’d better get going – don’t want to lose track.” Jim and McCoy scurried to catch up. 

“Holy shit, Cupcake, you made cupcakes!” Jim said upon catching a glimpse of the next dish, and the entire group broke out in laughter. The chef in question, however, turned red-faced and scowled at Jim. His creation – a sinfully rich devil’s food cake topped by a salted caramel buttercream and raspberry coulis for a dipping sauce – was simply too good to be true, however, and Jim suddenly saw the brilliance behind it. No one would be comfortable recreating a dessert for the first challenge – none of them were pastry chefs – and he looked at Cupcake with more respect than before. The French kid standing next to Jim who’d drawn the same number didn’t look too pleased about it either.

They moved on to Spock’s dish, an oil-poached salmon that was surprisingly delicate on the palate, and Jim forgot he was supposed to be mad at the guy for snaking his protein, the dish was that good. He told him just how good it was.

“It is a simple preparation if one applies the technique properly. Shockingly few show themselves capable of it, however, I have made a detailed study of it.”

Jim cocked his head and regarded this strange man before him – his tone was analytical, his face nearly passive and emotionless, but his eyes were animated as he spoke, showing his passion for the food. Jim didn’t know quite what to make of him – if not for the eyes, he’d have thought he was an android or something equally fantastical, alien. Also, an asshole.

At last they came to Jim’s station, and he described his dish to Tom and Padma, both of whom took second and third bites, though after tasting nearly a dozen dishes so far, by now it seemed their comments were less effusive. 

“Very tasty,” Tom said before moving on.

“Yes,” Padma agreed and Jim’s heart sank as he thought he’d be relegated to the middle of the pack at this point. If he were alone he’d be kicking himself. He shot a dark look at Spock for the salmon swiping, even though he knew it wasn’t fair.

All dishes tasted, Padma and Tom went off to a quiet corner to confer, leaving the contestants to stew in their own juices. “They hated it, I just know they hated it,” McCoy was muttering as he chewed at a thumbnail beside Jim. 

“What are you talking about?” Jim admonished him. “If Padma could have married that dish, she would have. Me, however – what’s the non-verbal equivalent of ‘Meh’? Because that’s exactly what my dish got.”

“Please – you know Colicchio loves pork belly.”

Jim felt marginally better – he hadn’t considered that.

Several minutes later, they were asked to stand on one side of the kitchen. 

“Chefs, I have to say, this has been one of the best early Quickfires in recent memory – very good work,” Padma said. Uhura, who was standing beside Jim, straightened her back and smiled primly – her Ethiopean curried goat with yogurt sauce _had_ been complex and delicious. “I’ll leave it up to Tom to announce our three least favorites.”

“Sabine,” Tom began, and Saavik looked about to puke. “While pickled herring is a personal favorite, we found yours to be a tad harsh on the palate and there were far too many onions.” To watch the woman deflate at this pronouncement was devastating to just about everyone, Jim saw – except possibly for Spock, who remained expressionless, and Nero, who looked positively triumphant. _What a tool,_ Jim thought.

“Gary,” Tom pointed at a man whose name Jim had yet to learn that day; he was of medium build, with fair hair, and had chosen to wear a short-sleeved version of the Top Chef chef’s coat that accentuated his well-muscled arms. “While the sauce on your lamb shanks was terrific, the meat itself was a bit tough and stringy – it needed more time in the pressure cooker.” Gary nodded curtly in agreement – Jim had thought so too.

“Janice,” Tom pointed to a young blonde woman who reminded Jim suddenly of a deer caught in headlights. “Your scallops were overcooked, and your sauce under-reduced. A disappointing execution.” Jim thought he could pinpoint the exact second the woman’s heart broke, and he felt for her.

“Thank you, Tom,” Padma said, her face showing no reaction to the tough yet fair assessments from the head judge. “Now if you would tell us your three favorites?”

“Spock,” Tom said, pointing at the man, and Jim was looking right at him so he saw that he made no reaction to being singled out. “Your salmon was rich and succulent, but not overly so, and I still don’t know what was in that parsnip puree, but I want the recipe.” The rest of the chefs laughed, but Spock merely inclined his head, accepting the praise.

“Leonard.” Jim could feel McCoy stiffen beside him. “Simply the best preparation of that dish I or Padma have ever tasted, you should be proud.” McCoy let out an explosive breath, as Jim clapped him on the back once, smiling broadly for his new friend.

In a minute, the group of them had hushed themselves, waiting with baited breath for the third name to be called. 

“Jim,” Tom said with a slight smile on his lips, and Jim felt a jolt of shock as he realized he was the only Jim in the room. “Your pork belly was succulent, but you got the right amount of sear on it at the end, and those grits were something to write home about.” 

“And our first Quickfire winner?” Padma prompted.

Tom paused a few seconds for effect, then pronounced, “…is Jim!”

Jim felt a wave of warmth suffuse his entire body as many of the nearer contestants slapped him on the back in congratulations; he had rarely felt better about himself or his food than at that very moment, and suddenly Pike’s words to him began to reverberate in his brain. _Shut up, brain,_ he thought. 

“Congratulations, Jim, you have earned immunity in the Elimination Challenge,” Padma said, a huge smile on her face. She went on to describe the challenge, which was as Jim had expected it to be – they’d have to re-imagine another chef’s dish, with the wild card being allowed to choose any of the dishes they wanted. Rules were handed out by a production assistant, but Jim barely paid attention – his brain was reeling from the excitement of his win.

After Tom and Padma were done shooting, a few of them were asked to remain behind to film “confessional” interviews with the production, including Jim and the others who’d won. He was mic’ed and asked inane questions (“How does it feel to win the first Quickfire?” “Do you think you’ll win Top Chef?” “What happened with the salmon?”) to which he gave inane answers (“It’s the most incredible feeling.” “Well, if I didn’t, I wouldn’t be here.” “It doesn’t matter now – I’d say my Plan B worked out pretty well.”). 

But then Marnie, the producer at the other side of the camera, brought out her big guns. “What about that fight with Brian earlier today?”

Jim could feel his own eyes go flat. “What about it?”

“You want to talk about it?”

“Is it going to make it into the final episode?”

“No way of knowing, but I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t ask.”

“So ask.”

“What happened?”

“I think you know what happened. I talked to a very beautiful young woman, and Cupcake didn’t like the way I was doing it, apparently.”

“They’re saying you provoked him.”

“Are they?” Jim bared his teeth in a smile, but he didn’t feel at all mirthful. 

“Did you?”

“Did I what?”

Marnie’s green eyes narrowed and she slung her clipboard onto her hip. “Are you going to make all of these interviews this difficult?”

“Do I get a prize if I do?” She glared at him, so he tried a different tack. “What’s it got to do with the food, my abilities as a chef, or this competition? Cupcake grabbed me, I reacted. Did I deserve the beat-down he gave me? I’d have to say I’m unbelievably biased on that score.” He smiled again, being sure to crinkle his eyes just so, because that’s the look that always got him out of trouble with anyone. “It’s water under the bridge as far as I’m concerned, and if this shiner I’m sporting gets any worse by tomorrow, I won’t be the one to point it out, or complain about it.”

Marnie blinked and her eyes flicked to Jim's slightly swollen left eye. “Does it hurt? Should we call a medic?”

“A Mack truck could run me down right now and it wouldn’t hurt me, darlin’ – I’m going to be the next Top Chef.”

She smiled at that, and then relaxed, slid the pen she held into the bun she’d tied her hair into on top of her head. “Great sound bite,” she complimented him.

“I’ve been told I give great…bites,” he said seductively, pulling the mic off and leaving the small room.

He waited in the lobby until all the others had been duly tortured, then caught a cab back to the cast house with Janice and Gaila. 

“Ah Jeez,” Gaila said with a giggle when the cab had taken off, “there is not enough alcohol in this entire city to get me drunk tonight.”

“Stick with me, and we’ll remedy that,” Jim replied with a wink. Janice just stared wide-eyed at the buildings passing them by as the cab took them home.

“Home” was a 3-story townhouse in Pacific Heights that looked like it’d go for at least $5 mil on the open market. Jim whistled low and rested an arm around Gaila, who’d sidled up beside him. “Don’t say I never take you anywhere, baby,” he said and then helped her and Janice with their luggage.

He was greeted just inside the door by a half-inebriated McCoy who handed them each a beer and grinned like a loon at them. “Can you believe this place? Must’a set the show back a few hundred thou. You should see the view off the back terrace.” He led the way through to the kitchen where the view over the back terrace was, in fact, spectacular, with the Golden Gate Bridge standing majestically over a sparkling San Francisco Bay in the distance. 

“I can get used to this,” Jim marveled, twisting the cap off his beer and chucking it at the sink.

\----

The cheftestants spent the next several hours eating, drinking, chatting, drinking, gossiping and drinking – basically, what all chefs do in their off-time. Through it all, Jim kept careful mental notes of everyone and how they interacted. “Cupcake” and Nero had removed themselves to the terrace, where they sat hunched over their beers scowling at just about everyone who tried to engage with them, though they seemed content to talk with each other. 

Hikaru Sulu, who Jim hadn’t had a chance to talk with yet, was standing at the kitchen island demonstrating for Chekov and that French kid how to make the thinnest slices off an entire cucumber Jim had ever seen. He was using what looked like a 12-inch knife, and Jim had to admit to being impressed. Gary Mitchell was clearly trying to seduce Janice Rand, who looked like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, and so he wasn’t going to be getting anywhere, and Saavik was complaining to anyone that would listen that the cuisine of her people was simply misunderstood, and that pickled herring was as important a dish on the stage of international cuisine as any other. Jim wondered if she’d had too much Aquavit. 

Spock and Uhura sat apart from the others, though he seemed to be listening in on several of the conversations taking place around him. Jim wasn’t sure if Spock was just absorbing it all to use it strategically later, which Jim himself was basically doing, or if he was just not that social a guy and was just getting some sort of vicarious enjoyment out of observing others. Jim thought the former was more likely – everything he’d read about Spock had pretty much been upheld by his behavior that afternoon – analytical, dispassionate, focused. 

“Interesting pair those two, eh?” Gaila said to Jim as she handed him another beer.

Jim shrugged. “I’m just trying to work out what makes Mr. Rising Star tick,” Jim said, not taking his eyes off of Spock.

“Well, I heard they used to date,” Gaila said, eyes widening as she imparted that delicious morsel of gossip.

“No! They still together?”

Gaila shrugged. “Don’t think so. Their restaurant tanked – can’t think that does wonders for a relationship.”

Jim took her by the arm and drew her aside. “You got anything else?”

“She’s from New York – parents are diplomats or something equally boring; she went to the CIA. No one knows where Spock came from or even what his first name is – or last name, I mean what _is_ that name? It’s like he emerged from under a rock about five years ago, when Wiley Dufresne hired him as sous chef after a single meeting. I heard he trained in Japan or Singapore or something. Their new place opened and closed in New York last year – no one knows why, but whatever it might have been, it was good enough to get him noticed by the James Beard Foundation.” 

“That is one complete dossier,” Jim remarked, more than a little alarmed at the depth of her knowledge of the competition. He feared to know what she’d learned about him. 

“You gotta know what you’re up against, otherwise, how do you win?” she asked, and Jim thought truer words might never have been spoken.

\----

After a few hours, folks started to wander off to their bedrooms to get some rest, and it was just Jim and Gaila remaining in the living room, the remains of a bottle of Macallan that Scotty had brought sitting on the coffee table between them. Jim leaned back in the wingback chair he was sitting in and rested his feet on the table, legs spread. “Long day,” he said, looking at Gaila sidewise, his eyes hooded.

“Probably a longer day tomorrow,” she remarked, sipping from her glass and licking the traces of the alcohol from her lips with a darting tongue. Jim’s mouth went dry as he watched her trace the edge of the glass with a perfectly manicured finger. “There’s a hot tub out in the back,” she said, lowering her eyelashes and biting her bottom lip.

Jim had of course noticed. “You don’t say? Oh, but I didn’t bring a bathing suit with me.”

“I don’t know if one is strictly necessary,” she said, getting to her feet and kicking off her shoes. She walked slowly to the sliding doors, losing an item of clothing every few seconds. Before she went through the door, she glanced over her shoulder, flicked off the lacy push-up bra she wore and flung it at him, taking care to cover her bare breasts haphazardly with one plump arm. “Don’t keep me waiting,” she said – it was more like an order, really – and he watched her beautifully heart-shaped ass with the Celtic tramp stamp above it sashay off across the terrace and out of sight.

The speed with which all of the blood in his body descended to Jim’s groin was nearly dizzying. He got up, kicked off his sneakers and practically tripped over them in his haste to make it to the door. He’d gotten his shirt off and was unbuttoning his fly as he made his way to the hot tub. When he was naked, he stepped down into the surging water, Gaila greeting him with open arms like some sort of water sprite.

She had her arms around his neck and was drawing him in, her mouth soft, her breath sweet, redolent of whiskey, and strawberries, and every good thing. The ends of her hair brushed the surface of the water, making the curls spring up, and he buried his right hand in them, in an effort to pull her closer. “Oh, Jim,” she breathed, arching her back so that her nipples pressed against his chest. He reached his left hand down and tweaked one between thumb and forefinger, smiling as she moaned into his mouth. Pushing herself off the seat, she swiveled her hips so that she was straddling him. He looked up at her, breathless, as she settled in his lap, his cock hot and hard between them. 

“Jesus, I’ve wanted you since I laid eyes on you,” she fairly growled.

“What, twelve hours ago?”

“A girl can know what she wants.”

“You’ll get no argument from me.” He moved his arms around her back, pushed off with his legs and moved her across the hot tub, her head resting gently on its edge. Her legs were now wrapped around his waist, and he buried his face in her throat and began sucking a bruise there, his tongue licking gently, then adding more pressure.

“Inside me, I want you inside me,” she breathed, barely audible, and Jim backed off her slightly, intent on giving her just what she wanted.

But a clearing of a throat behind her, and an exaggerated _Ahem,_ got both their attentions. Jim’s face came up from her throat as Gaila craned her head back, and they both saw Spock sitting in the middle of the terrace, his legs crossed in the lotus position. 

“I think you will each want to consider the wisdom of an appropriate use of birth control at this juncture,” he said, regarding them both with dark, serious eyes.

“Buh?” Jim said.

“Gwuh?” Gaila added, and then they were both spluttering in semi-drunken semi-outrage at being observed _in flagrante_.

“I apologize for startling you, but neither of you seemed to have noticed me meditating here when you emerged from the house. I originally thought to remain silent, but the ill-advisedness of unprotected intercourse between virtual strangers seemed a good enough reason to make myself heard.” He unfurled his long legs and got to his feet gracefully. “I see now that perhaps I was mistaken, and so I will go to my room. You should carry on, if you so choose.” He turned on his heel and went into the house.

“He’s a polite little cock-blocker, I’ll give him that,” Jim observed wryly. With a kiss to the tip of Gaila’s nose, he disengaged himself and offered to help her out of the tub. “But he’s right. You don’t know where a guy like me’s been.”

She gave a disappointed noise, but held out her hand to him. “I feel as if my Dad just caught me with my prom date in the backseat of his Benz.”

“I think you’d be in a lot more trouble with your dad.”

“I think I’m already in trouble with my dad,” she said, pointing with her chin. 

Jim’s eyes followed the direction she indicated, and he saw what was unmistakably a camera bolted to the side of the house, pointed right at the hot tub. “Holy shit,” he said, putting his body between Gaila and the camera’s sights. “I am never going to get used to _that._ ”

“Yeah, no kidding. See you in the morning.” With that, she scurried off across the terrace and into the house, collecting her things as she went. Jim followed a minute later, a look of disgust for the camera, wondering if he really knew what he was getting into here.

\----

In the morning, Jim was up bright and early at 6:00 am, and got dressed as quietly as he could – he didn’t want to wake McCoy, Sulu or Chekov, who he was rooming with – then went down to the living room with his running shoes in hand. He’d noticed a path down the hill that looked like it led through a nearby park, so he thought he’d clear his head with a quick run before they were scheduled to head over to the market to shop for the challenge. Dropping his shoes on the floor, he grabbed a carton of OJ from the fridge and downed a few mouthfuls as he pushed his feet into the sneakers. Replacing the carton in the fridge, he headed over to the terrace doors and outside to stretch before his run.

He was bending over, trying to stretch the muscles at the backs of his legs when the sound of a clearing throat behind him nearly made him jump out of his skin. “GAH-augh-awhh!” he said intelligently, spinning around. “You!” he exclaimed, taking in the sight of Spock once again seated in the lotus position in the middle of the deck, gazing at him serenely. “You spend the night there?” Jim asked, trying to regain his composure. 

Spock blinked and glance back at the house.

“Oh no, that’s right – you did wind up going inside. You know, they have cameras set up out here?”

Spock’s eyebrow rose with an expression of mild interest. 

“Yeah, so your little interruption last night really kind of save our bacon, or you know, some embarrassment, so thanks.”

Sock inclined his head. 

“Not so sure I’d want _that_ leaking onto the internet or whatever, you know?” he said with a nervous laugh. Done with his legs, Jim spent a few seconds stretching his lats, then prepared to go. “Well, listen, I’ma get in a few miles before breakfast, so I’ll see ya later.” He swung his arms around broadly, stretching his shoulders. “Nice talkin’ to ya.” With that, he trotted down the steps to the path behind the house and set off, muttering, “Boy, that guy’ll talk your friggin’ _ear_ off.”

\----

Shopping at the supermarket was uneventful, and since Jim’s was a relatively simple dish to prepare, he was the first one done. He sat on the curb outside and went over his notes for his dish, reviewing his plating and garnishes in his head, and thinking and re-thinking his timeline. 

Within half an hour, they were on their way to Restaurant Gary Danko, where the Elimination Challenge would be held. The restaurant was elegant, the kitchen top-of-the-line, but too small to house 17 eager Top Chef contestants, so they were told their 2-hour cooking time limit would be staggered, and they’d be serving in groups of four. Being in the second group, Jim cooled his heels in the pastry kitchen for half an hour with the remaining twelve chefs.

“Relax and chill, boys,” McCoy snarked to Nero and Cupcake at one point, as the two sat with heads together in a far corner of an adjacent pantry, “you two keep to yourselves glowering like that, and they’ll make you out to be the bad guys for TV.”

Jim laughed outright, and Nero just glowered some more. 

“Think you made yourself an enemy, Bones,” Jim said to McCoy as he came to lean against a barstool right next to him. 

“Some people just want enemies,” McCoy said sourly. “And are you really sticking to that ‘Bones’ nickname?”

Jim grinned, eyes twinkling. “You got a better one? What’s your ex call you?”

“Shithead. Bones it is, I guess. You think the going could _get_ any slower around here? I’m a chef, not a fisherman. If I have to exercise any more patience, it might just kill me.”

Jim grinned and went back to scanning the room, observing his fellow chefs in their downtime. As before, Nero seemed to be simmering with an unnatural level of animosity, and this time it seemed to be directed at Spock. Jim wondered what that was all about, whether it was jealousy, annoyance that Spock was the one to be reinterpreting Nero’s dish, or something more, but the guy was so intense, and his face filled with something bordering on hate, that Jim actually feared for Spock’s safety. He glanced at the man in question, but he was sitting on a stool in the corner among a few others, though he did not seem to be engaging in their conversation.

Jim’s group was given their turn about 30 minutes later, and Jim concentrated so completely on his dish, he looked up in confusion when time was called on the first four chefs to serve, and he realized he had 30 minutes left to finish and plate his own dish. He wasn’t exactly in the weeds, but knowing time was nearly up was almost a shock. He was already instructing the servers how to present the dish for the diners when time was called, and he, Carol, Bones and Gaila trotted out with their dishes to present them to the judges.

The sight of the judges was almost too much for Gaila, who was visibly trembling beside Jim. Padma cleared her throat to introduce them.

“Chefs, I’d like to introduce you to our judges for the evening. Christopher Pike, well-known chef, restaurateur and author,” Pike inclined his head and smiled at them all. 

Padma continued with the introductions, “Chef Tom Colicchio, our head judge.” Tom gave them a typically Mona Lisa-type smile, though his eyes twinkled; Jim thought he was in a good mood and relaxed marginally. “Gary Danko, chef-owner of this establishment and considered to be one of the best chefs in the city.” Danko inclined his head and then checked out Gaila’s rack; Jim noticed her answering grin and suddenly she wasn’t trembling any longer. “Hubert Keller, chef-owner of Fleur de Lis, and former Top Chef Master.” Jim’s anxiety ratcheted up yet again when he looked at the legend, whose fame – and standing as the first winner of Top Chef Masters – was enough to intimidate. Others were introduced, but Jim didn’t register their presence, so intently was he staring at Keller.

Gaila was first to serve, and began by pouring broth into the diners’ bowls from a pitcher she’d toted in from the kitchen as she described the dish – a veal-filled ravioli with marrow-fortified _brotho_ and parsley and lemon gremolata. Bones’ dish was a southern-fried version of Gaila’s classic roasted chicken, which he’d first sous-vided before flash-frying to a crispy texture. From the look on her face, Padma wanted to make love to the chicken on her plate and Bones, in that order; Jim hoped there were leftovers.

Jim was next to present, delivering a ribollita terrine with handmade parmesan crackers. Carol next presented her interpretation of Jim’s pork belly, which was, not shockingly, a bit of marinated tofu atop a smearing of polenta, with braised kale. He noted Padma’s raised eyebrow at the presentation, but no one else reacted. Their dishes served, the four of them headed back to the kitchen to begin to clean up their stations.

“Well, that was painless,” Bones muttered as they walked. 

“Speak for yourself – at least you had a protein to work with,” Jim said under his breath.

“Your ex-girlfriend’s not going to get far serving vegan food, that’s for sure.”

“I don’t disagree, and how did you know she’s my ex?”

“I’ve got eyes, kid, and she’s alternating giving you the googly ones or else staring daggers at you, so yeah, she’s your ex.”

“Damn your eyes, anyways.”

The rest of the chefs peeled off to make their presentations over the next hour, and since he was both fascinated and appalled at the apparently one-sided hatefest going on between Nero and Spock, Jim paid them special attention. Nero kept staring at Spock’s interpretation of his veal dish – from what Jim could glean, he was braising veal cheeks and pairing them with sweetbreads. This was a smart move if he pulled it off – the Top Chef judges did love their offal.

Eventually, it was all over, and Jim pitched in to help the last chefs clean up their stations. In the Stew Room at the Fairmont later, he sat next to the French kid, who was bragging about his winning interpretation of Cupcake’s cupcake. Cupcake shook his head – he was no fool, not from what Jim had seen of his skill with a savory dish – and desserts were notoriously tricky. Jim helped himself to the beer that the producers had provided and wondered when was the last time he felt so all-over exhausted. He honestly didn’t think he’d be able to stand.

Padma’s appearance in the doorway soon made him a liar, as a jolt of adrenaline hit his system when she said, “The judges would like to see Leonard… and Spock… and Jim.”

Standing on their marks about 15 feet away from the panel of judges behind their table felt more like being on trial than being evaluated on their cuisine, and Jim had no doubt this was done on purpose. Intellectually, he knew this was a good line-up to be in – the favorites were traditionally called before the judges – but he wouldn’t put it past them to switch things up.

It took forever for the camera people to line up the proper shots – or so it seemed to Jim – and by the time Padma was ready to begin laying down the judgment, Jim was a nervous as a…

“Boy, I’m as jittery as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs,” Bones drawled, breaking the tension for everyone as laughter filled the room, but still causing the director to call for a cut, and for Padma to begin again.

“Chefs,” she began at last. “You three have prepared our three favorite dishes of the evening.”

“Christ on a cracker,” Bones said with relief and when Jim glanced over at him, he looked like he might fall over in a dead faint. Spock, standing on the other side of Bones with his hands folded at the small of his back, had a serene, unaffected look on his handsome face, as he had since they entered the room. Jim resolved to get him to show an emotion – just one – if it killed him. 

Padma laughed, but when Tom spoke his name, Jim still jumped a little. “Jim, your terrine was – simply delicious.”

“Aw, thank you, chef, I’m pleased you liked it.”

“I may have wanted to lick my plate clean,” Padma offered and Jim smiled.

“The celery gelée – what was your inspiration?” Hubert Keller asked. 

Jim’s mind momentarily blanked. “I – just broke the original dish down into its component parts and built the terrine from the ground up.”

“I thought it was a terrific interpretation. You had immunity, did you not?”

“Yes, sir.”

“It’s clear you didn’t take that for granted.”

“I’m in it to win it, chef.” Keller nodded approvingly and smiled, his eyes twinkling. 

“The herb in the white bean layer – summer savory?” Tom asked.

“Yes, I thought it’d work better than the original rosemary in such a delicate dish.”

“A smart choice.” Jim couldn’t stop smiling.

“Leonard,” Padma called out. Jim glanced at the man standing next to him, who grinned as his name was called. “I hear you already have a nickname out there.”

He gave Jim a sour look. “This knucklehead’s started calling me ‘Bones’ because of the bone marrow.”

Padma laughed. “How apropos. But your chicken – it was simply sublime. Juicy, tender on the inside, crispy on the outside.”

“Thank you. My Meemaw thanks you too – there’s no way her grandson would put up a plate of bad chicken.”

“The ‘sauce’ – it tasted just like mashed potatoes, but was so much better,” Christopher Pike said, marveling. “What – how did you manage such a consistency?”

Bones’ ears colored a deep red. “With potato flakes.”

“Potato flakes?” Keller repeated, shocked.

“Yes, chef.”

“You’re telling me we’re all going to have to stock dehydrated potatoes in our kitchens now?” Pike asked, kidding.

“Only if you want to get it right,” Bones drawled to another round of laughter.

“Spock,” Pike said as the laughter died down and they moved on to the next person.

Spock raised an eyebrow expectantly.

“The veal cheeks were perfectly cooked, perfectly seasoned, but your sweetbreads – were actually sweet, just a hint. It was… perfect.” He grimaced at his sudden lack of a diverse vocabulary.

“What did you flavor them with?” Padma asked.

“Vietnamese cinnamon.”

“It imparted such a delicate flavor,” she said, “almost haunting. We were making bets as to what the spice was.”

“May I ask who won?”

“Hubert.”

“Yours is clearly the superior palate, chef,” Spock said simply and without affect, and Jim felt his own eyebrows rise at the cheekiness of the remark, but all of the judges seemed to agree, nodding their heads. Jim shook his head in amazement. 

Padma went on to proclaim the winner. “The judging for this first challenge was tough. Never in the history of Top Chef have we had this many outstanding dishes this early. I’ll leave it to our guest judge to proclaim the winner.”

Chef Keller cleared his throat. “This was an interesting challenge to judge, and it is my pleasure to announce that the first winner is… Spock.”

Jim was unprepared for the stab of disappointment and, yes, resentment, not to have won. Glancing over at Bones, he saw that he felt the same, but when he walked the three steps over to Spock’s side, to shake the man’s hand to congratulate him, the look of astonishment on Spock’s face was enough to make Jim forget it all. The win had clearly shaken Spock’s usual reserved coolness, and he stumbled as McCoy slapped him on the shoulder. Spock’s eyes were wide, the corners of his mouth turned up in a slight smile, and the play of that simple emotion transformed his handsome face into something else entirely. 

“I won,” Spock said, his voice low and soft, almost questioning, as if saying it would somehow make it untrue. 

“Yeah, you did,” Jim said happily, the openness in the other man’s face making Jim, irrationally, feel proud of him, as if Spock was his kid brother and he’d just learned to tie his shoelaces. But going through what they just had bonded people, Jim knew, no matter how short the time spent together.

“We’ll need for you to send some of your colleagues back to us,” Padma said, and asked them to call for Janice, Carol and André to stand before the judges.

“André? Who’s André?” Jim whispered to Bones on their way back.

“André Chemise-Rouge? The French kid?” At Jim’s continued blank look, Bones rolled his eyes. “Oh, fer chrissakes, man, he was cooking at the station next to you yesterday _and_ today.” Jim still couldn’t place him, and Bones shook his head in disbelief. 

They returned to the Stew Room and McCoy announced to those assembled that Spock had been declared the winner. In the intervening moments, Spock had regained his composure, and so stood before everyone with his hands behind his back as usual. Several of the others rose to come and congratulate Spock, but Jim noticed that Nero was not at all pleased, and wondered at the structural integrity of the empty beer bottle he held, and if a human hand had the strength to break one. 

“They want to see Carol and Sabine and André,” Jim announced. When the French kid stood, Jim still didn’t recognize him, but resolved to get to know him better. When the three left, they looked like they were heading off to a firing squad. They returned twenty minutes later, looking white as sheets as the judges deliberated on a decision. 

“My cakes were dry, they said they were dry,” André said, looking a little shell-shocked. “Did you think they were?” he asked the room in general.

But no one could really answer him, instead standing apart from him and the other two who’d made the bottom three, superstitiously not wanting to be tainted by their bad luck. Jim stepped forward and put his arm around the kid’s shoulders. “Hey, come on, buck up, there’s nothing you can do now – you had a bad day in the kitchen, we all do.”

The kid nodded, but still looked like he was about to vomit, and there was little else Jim or anyone else could do. Bones silently offered them each a beer, which Jim accepted but André did not. Carol sat in a corner, her face dark, and looked like she might be capable of chewing iron and spitting out nails.

Half an hour later, a P.A. came to collect them, and Jim watched the three of them leave. The cut appeared to be quick and merciful, because they returned less than ten minutes later, with the news that André had indeed been asked to pack his knives. He stood there in the doorway looking a little lost, so Jim strode forward, grasped his shoulder, and squeezed. “I’m sorry, man.”

“I suppose someone had to be first?”

“Yeah,” Jim said, because what else could he say? He noticed that Janice was shaking from the stress, but luckily Gaila was there to administer a hug. Carol appeared to have regained her Earth-motherly sense of calm, at least on the outside. As Jim watched her, he could see a hint of steel in her eyes, and determination, and thought that maybe he’d finally caught a glimpse of the young woman he knew ten years ago.

All in all, it had been an enormously long and stressful day, and as Jim looked around the room, he could tell the rest of the cast felt the same. He couldn’t believe they’d have to go through this a dozen more times over the next few weeks. Glancing over at Scotty, he saw him mimic the downing of a large bottle of something, and he longed to get back home.

Despite wanting nothing more than a large glass of whisky and his bed, not necessarily in that order, Jim and a few others were asked to remain behind to record their reactions while André was filmed packing up his tools. As Jim was waiting for his turn, he was approached by Chef Keller.

“I wanted to tell you how much I truly enjoyed that dish,” he began, then continued in French, “ _Votre professeur serait fier de vous."_

 _"Je suis honoré que vous le pensiez, mais je ne me comparerais pas à un tel homme,_ " Jim replied in French out of respect; Keller clearly knew his background, even if they’d never met before.

" _Vous devriez,_ " came the response, and Keller squeezed Jim’s shoulder paternally before leaving. 

As Jim watched him go, he was struck with a sudden thought - _would_ his teacher be proud of him? And did he care?

\----

Thank you for your time.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Additional Notes:**  
>  • Extra special thanks and cherries to Aragarna for assistance with the French bits – I only understand enough to recognize stuff on a menu.  
> • I am trying to intersperse as many San Francisco-based RL chefs into the mix as I can, as they would do on a typical season of Top Chef, but I mean, it’s not like I know them that well, so don’t accuse me of RPF is what I’m saying, LOL.  
> • I also had to ascribe names to some characters - first, last, or otherwise - where I couldn’t find them in any online fan sources, or where they don’t actually have one (hence, Cupcake = Brian), so if something’s amiss, that’s why, and if I got one wrong, please let me know.  
> • Here is the exchange between Jim and Chef Keller, in English:  
>  **Chef Keller** : Your teacher would be proud.  
>  **Jim** : I am honored that you think so - but I would not compare myself to such a man.  
>  **Chef Keller** : You should.


End file.
